


Pizzería Peligroso

by SingleDogRadio



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Pre-Slash, Stiles POV, no werewolves au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 14:34:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1432045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SingleDogRadio/pseuds/SingleDogRadio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When I see his eyes, I am forced to look away, trying to find anything interesting about my hands or feet. Anything to hide how I want to stare into his eyes for hours more. Study them. Sketch them. (I blame Scott, who knew heart eyes were contagious).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pizzería Peligroso

People always complain how little time they have. Those people can have my time. My days never seem to end when I am working.

During the summer I am employed by one of the ten pizza shops in the town of Beacon Hills. Business is hurt by the scalding sunlight, and tough economic times. This means slow days of staring into space and Facebook stalking the customers. I am reading through the slim selection of books from the public library, usually shocking everyone that the written word has not disappeared. I work with a few others whom I listen to speak in foreign languages, sounding like a beautiful song, understanding nothing. Some days we’ll sit and watch fútbol on Univision or talk about our lives, but not today.

Today I find myself staring out the front glass windows, sweat pouring from every inch of my body. My skin sticking to the wooden seat. The broken air conditioner turning the restaurant into a mirage for the customers wanting a rest from the hot sun. I begin counting down the hours, minutes, seconds I have left in this 11th circle of hell, I see about six police cars drive by. I don't know when I started counting police cars but this seems to be the most interesting thing I’ve done all week. A couple of squad cars pull into the parking lot of the little plaza where Pizzería Peligroso is situated next to a gas station.

My boss goes over to talk to the gas station employees because he is somehow motivated to move in this excruciating heat. I stay stuck to one of the booths, sweaty forehead bonded to the window staring with as much interest as I could muster. Deaton, the boss, returns with a glorious iced coffee melting with condensation that he bought at the gas station. He is quick to repeat his juicy gossip to everyone within hearing distance. As I guessed, it was about as interesting as counting passing vehicles, but at least it allowed me to focus on anything other than perspiration. Just as Deaton is relaying the details, the heavens open up and release what should be a refreshing change. It is pouring rain but it feels no different than the hot sticky humidity this past week has given the town.

The rain unfortunately does affect the 3 gallons of gas an idiot somehow spilled outside of the gas station. Deaton was quick to lecture his employees about preventing the gas from going down the drain contaminating the town’s water. I’m sure he went on for three more hours but I heard not a word of it. As soon as I learned why the cops were there, I lost interest.

I’ve worked in this same place for five years now. I have learned the orders of regular customers, one large cheese well done, a large bacon pizza, two small pizzas xtra thin xtra crispy,two chicken caesar salads house dressing xtra chicken xtra dressing, and I could continue but I realize how boring that sounds. I have learned how to make time pass for the hours between lunch and dinner where the only person I see is delivering our mail. When business is slow and the heat is high, if I stop moving, I will never make it through my eleven hour shift. My goal is to busy myself with cleaning and re-cleaning the tables, folding boxes, and making playlists.

The end of my shift comes as a pleasant surprise and I send a quick text to Scott, my ride for the evening and my only hope of escaping this torture, since my Jeep is in the shop. I count the money, turn off all the machines, and close down the shop, but my ride has yet to make an appearance (I blame Scott mooning over Allison). Not wanting to be alone while I wait, I walk over to the gas station to spend the three dollars I made in tips from my eleven hour shift. Inside the mini mart, I browse each three foot long aisles in search of one cheap item that will give me enough of a sugar rush to stay awake for a shower. I spot the 99 cent iced tea cans sent straight from high fructose corn syrup heaven and am forced into a decision of with or without lemon flavoring. As I head back towards the register I hop on the tiles to avoid the recently placed wet floor sign, the white tiles are lava. Waiting behind a wrinkled woman buying her marlboro reds and stinking of body odor, I offer a sympathetic nod to the person behind the register. I can relate to dealing with her rude and dismissive comments spoken too loud for the small store. When I see his eyes, I am forced to look away, trying to find anything interesting about my hands or feet. Anything to hide how I want to stare into his eyes for hours more. Study them. Sketch them. (I blame Scott, who knew heart eyes were contagious).

Cigarette lady leaves with her purchases and he finally meets my eyes, it becomes difficult to stop the blush from crawling up my neck and covering the tops of my ears. I worry that somehow he can read my mind but that’s impossible, right? right.

“How are you?” That’s a normal question, I can do this. I can respond to a simple question, but does he want the truth because I feel pretty sore and I have not yet recovered from the broken AC. Nobody wants to hear strangers complain, ‘Good, and you?’ Wow, that almost sounded true and it was definitely an appropriate response. What is wrong with me? Wait, I can have this internal freak out later, listen to his response because this will be the only time I ever get the courage to speak real words strung together in a coherent sentence. I don’t even know his name, I should gain some composure. His name, Derek, it reads on his nametag. If you can call it a name tag, it’s made from masking tape and written on with black sharpie. That should not be adorable.

“Good thanks”

‘That’s good,’ and smile. That was bordering on painless.

“Just this?” What? is this Iced Tea not enough? I am trying to not spend every cent I made tonight, but thanks for the judgement Mr. Mini Mart. I think the tiredness is seeping into my brain and making me more insane than usual. How quick infatuation turned to rage.

‘Yup’ popping the ‘p’ for emphasis on how laid back and normal I can be. I hand him two of the three dollar bills in my possession, and wait for my change. Derek hands me the change and I am abrupt when exiting the store even though Scott has yet to arrive. Tossing a ‘Have a good night!’ into the air hoping Derek hears but continuing my mission of avoiding too much eye contact. I stand in the shadows between Pizzería Peligroso and the gas station until Scott pulls up in his mom’s car. I watch my embarrassment fade farther away as we pull out of the plaza towards my home. I finish the sugary sweet tea and let the hot shower soothe my sore muscles. Setting my alarm clock, I am not thrilled to repeat this day as I open the pizza shop the next morning. I fall asleep thinking of piercing hazel eyes, glistening in the sun. David Hasselhoff is there too. My subconscious is a weird place.

**Author's Note:**

> Let's see if people like this one or nah.  
> I might have companion pieces planned just in case I wanna keep working on it.
> 
> p.s. the gas station near me uses David Hasselhoff in advertisements and on their t-shirts


End file.
